


The Goldfish's Song of the Sea

by angelgazing



Category: Lost
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-13
Updated: 2010-02-13
Packaged: 2017-10-07 05:23:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/61832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelgazing/pseuds/angelgazing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Freedom isn't free.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Goldfish's Song of the Sea

He whispers aching songs of silence into the juncture of bone and flesh and breath. An isolated sigh amongst the isolated people. (Together means so little here. _Here_, he laughs. _Here_, he cries, a sharp bark of nothingness.)

The waves dance over still feet standing, crashing against sore places, (he didn't know, he didn't know they were sore until he'd hit them. Until he'd crashed into them at full speed.) like salt in a thousand-thousand bite-mark bruises.

Boone closes his eyes as fingers scratch at his jaw, head tilted back to the sky above, the clouds and clouds and sun that beat down hard—angry, mistreated, unjustifiably blamed for the place they landed—fire in the sky falling down at dusk, not now, at dusk. Not yet.

He breathes in salt, breathes in Jack and coughs against the ocean rising 'round their ankles. Sand smooth underfoot, smooth enough to hurt, a sharp pain of gentleness.

Jack's hands are gentle, sliding slowly, carefully, barely over places where the hurt is buried into bone. Buried into Boone. He cringes at the pun and laughs and he doesn't answer questions or give away secrets.

(No right. It has no right. He has no right.)

The wind laughs against his backdrop. His shadow, the edges of: rippling with the moon-pulled waves of the ocean. It's shaky, he's shaky, but his shadow shivers as it darkens the space just behind him, afraid of the wrath that the water holds.

He imagines unwritten letters, pages rustling like feathers in the breeze off the ocean. Imagines wings spread out as far as his arms, as far as the corner of the world that isn't, made of paper with scribbled words of _look, here I am, come find me, here I am. I love you. Here I am._

The waves sigh at his feet and he sighs at (the shallow curve of the earth dropped open, the horizon blue and blue and not enough there to matter) fingers sliding slick, rough and soft along his wrist. (Pulling… Pulling… Pulling him deeper.)

The breath of the earth—no, not _the_, his, he always forgets that—is ghosting (ghosting, he laughs, ghosts. They're all ghosts.) across him, inside of him. There and gone again.

Inhale, exhale, in and out and it's taken away. It's always taken away again.

No, no, no, no, no. No. Nononono.

He chants a silent rhythm of the word, the sound bleeding out into the nothing, into the place where—No, no, he can't go there. There is nothing there anyway.

(He bruises his fingertips gripping too hard at things that slip away.)

His laughter fades into a sigh, fades into Jack's skin where he wants to be.

Imagines being free, imagines flying away from this place on scribbled paper wings, the blue of the ocean sparkling, shining beneath his feet.

(This is freedom, this is flying, this is Jack's fingers curved into an almost fist at the small of his back, at the curve of his spine.)

The waves slap his shins, whispering quiet songs under the harsh light of the sun. It's burning him, burning them. He's burning.

(This is freedom.)


End file.
